I cannot tell why, for you are one of the fairest of fair
women."
"Fair, but not your 'ideal woman,'" she said, gently.
"No, not my 'ideal woman,'" he returned; "my sister, my friend--not my
love."
"I am to blame," she said, proudly; "but again I must plead that I am
like Priscilla. While you are pleading the cause of another, the truth
came uppermost; you must forgive me for speaking so forcibly. As the
poem says:
"'There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotions
That if, by chance, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble,
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.'"
"My dearest Philippa, you have not been to blame," he said; "you judge
yourself so hardly always."
"It is the fate of a woman to be silent," she said again. "Still, I am
glad that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell me what your ideal of
woman is like, that I may know her when I see her?"
"Nay," he objected, gently, "let us talk of something else."
But she persisted.
"Tell me," she urged, "that I may know in what she differs from me.
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